


Life and Limb

by Aespren



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Jearmin Secret Santa, M/M, Major Character Injury, canonverse, chapter 64
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 02:26:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3101966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aespren/pseuds/Aespren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm so sorry, Jean..."</p><p>Jean doesn't know how to reply. He doesn't really want to. All he can think of right now, and all he's been able to think about for the last few days, is how he could have prevented this; how he could have been less of an idiot.</p><p>All he had wanted to do was be a hero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life and Limb

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chiasa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiasa/gifts).



> This is my entry for the Jearmin Secret Santa exchange hosted on tumblr. This fic is canon-divergent, and reimagines chapter 64 under the condition that Jean has still not come to terms with killing.

His first thoughts, upon waking up in the infirmary, were of Armin.

Well, if he's being honest, his exact thoughts were  _wow, you really fucked up._  But the two are closely related.

Armin's saved his life three times now, and every time he's managed to keep both of them out of harm's way (save for a minor head wound or two). But the first chance that he gets to protect Armin - the first chance he gets where he's  _actually able_  to do something about their situation - he completely screws it up.

That was three days ago.

It's because of that same screw up that he's now alone in the shared sleeping quarters, tediously packing away the few possessions that he has here. In just a couple of hours he will be leaving, for good. He'll be going back home, to his mom, who can now rest assured that her only son isn't going to die in the line of battle like so many previous Survey Corps soldiers have done before him.

Not that she'll be happy with the current situation. But she'll know that this is the better alternative. He'll be home again,  _safe_ , and the two of them can live the rest of their lives off of the pension that he'll receive - well,  _will_  receive, once the Survey Corps gets restored as an accepted military branch by the government, or once they manage overthrow it... whichever comes first.

It does nothing to make him feel any better.

He can't feel happy right now, not after what he's done; after how he's messed up. He can't be happy when he knows that his comrades will still be out here, fighting a threat that was already too large for them to handle when they still had a full team, and only one enemy. By leaving, he may as well be adding to their death count.

Jean looks around the room, knowing that this will be the final time seeing it. Not that this is a regular location of theirs. Like everywhere else they've been staying since he joined, this is only a temporary dwelling. There's nothing special about it; a single window looking upon the forest, a side table with a missing drawer...To the right side of the room stands the only intact piece of furniture: an aging wooden dresser with an attached mirror, which he's been avoiding ever since he walked into the room.

But it's not the room that he's going to miss. It's the feel; the tattered blankets and shoddy pillows that lie strewn on the floor; the bags stuffed as far as they can go because they still haven't adjusted to their lack of personal possessions; the lanterns that have no real order to their location, but are merely placed where they won't get kicked during sleep... he never guessed that he would miss  _this_.

"Hey."

The greeting is quiet, but Jean's body jumps anyway. He hadn't even noticed the typical creek of the wooden door, or the crack of light that accompanied it. But most importantly, he hadn't heard the footsteps that should have warned him of his encounter; of person he had been trying to avoid all night.

Armin is the last person that Jean wants to see.

He isn't even supposed to be out of bed. According to Hange, he should still be resting. Then again, so is Jean. But he didn't really have that option right now, did he?

Jean doesn't reply to the greeting. He's had all day to think of how he should, but nothing ever came to him. Ever since Levi told him that he had to leave, he'd known he would run into Armin. There was no way that he would let him leave without saying goodbye, and if it meant breaking the rules because Jean still hadn't come to see him, then so be it.

Still, it hadn't stopped Jean from hoping.

He told himself he was avoiding Armin to make it easier on him; who would want to see the person responsible for their life-threatening injuries? But he knows the real reason why he was avoiding him was to make it easier on himself. He's the one who doesn't want to see the damage he's caused.

He's already imagined this scenario multiple times in his head, imagined that maybe Armin would be angry. He would yell, maybe even cry. And in the end he'd blame everything on Jean. In some of these scenarios Armin was too upset to talk to him at all, and those were his favourite ones.

Instead, he knows this will be the moment where he says goodbye, or if he's delusional enough; thank you.

But Armin doesn't say any of those things. Instead he asks something that Jean had never once thought of in all his scenarios.

"Jean..." Armin says, his voice faltering from hesitance, "You know what happened, right?"

What kind of question was that? Of course he knows what happened.

"Hange says you haven't spoken about it at all, or spoken to anyone about anything really. She thinks you may be in shock."

Thinks? There isn't much doubt about it. For a month, ever since they'd joined this squad, Armin had been telling him that this was no longer a war between man and beast. If he recalled back far enough, Armin had been telling him similar things long before that. But of course, he hadn't listened to any of it. He'd just argued against him, defending the dignity of man as if he hadn't stopped believing in it years ago.

And then, on their mission to save Eren, the two of them had been knocked out of the air. And along came that Military Police woman, walking proof of all of Armin's theories about humanity, and Jean could do nothing but keep denying it until the last moment; telling himself that this war was still one of human and titans, not man and man. And then she had shown him just how wrong he was.

_So forgive him if he's in a bit of shock._

But he doesn't say any of that to Armin. It's pointless. They'd argued about it hundreds of times before, and now Armin is the one who is right, and they both know it.

So instead, Jean responds with the only thing that seems logical. "What does it matter? I'm not a soldier anyway."

"That's not true!" Armin responds, his tone rising.

"It will be in a few hours."

Armin doesn't reply.

And then they are back in the silence of the room, where the only thing Jean can find worth looking at is one of the flickering candles. He hopes that Armin will leave, before this conversation goes any further.

"I'm worried about you, Jean..."

Jean blows a puff of air between his lips.

"Armin, I know what happened. Trust me. I'm not ever going to forget it," he says with a tight laugh, "But just because I remember it doesn't mean I like it," he finishes, and looks to Armin, hoping he sounded convincing enough.

He can tell from the way that Armin still looks at him, as if he's about to fall apart at any moment, that he was unsuccessful.  _Guess that's what you get for being honest your whole life; can't even tell a single lie when you need it._

"What about you?" Jean asks, changing the subject, "How's your neck?"

More than anything, this is what he had wanted to avoid most; seeing the injury that he is responsible for. But now that it's in front of him he has little resistance. His eyes are just naturally drawn to it, like a dead animal hanging from a shop window. He doesn't want to look at it, but he has to.

The cut runs along the left side of his neck, climbing upwards. It looks bad, bad enough to kill him, but Armin's presence says otherwise; he is here, talking, breathing. It's more than Jean had thought possible.

He reaches a hand out to touch, taking a moment to realize that it'd be better to use his left one. He hesitates for a second, before his fingers make contact, to see if Armin will stop him. But there's no objection, and Jean places his fingers at the top of it, feeling the skin which is still swollen. It's rough, and despite the dim light, he can still tell how red it is. He doubts it will ever fully heal. He runs his fingers over it, feeling the damage that he's caused.

He doesn't stop until his fingers reach the end of it, at the top of Armin's chest.

Jean drops his hand, and looks away. Armin is staring at him, and he knows it's his turn now.

"Can I?" he asks.

Jean doesn't reply, but Armin seems to understand that his silence is an answer within itself. He reaches forward, and grabs the limp sleeve of Jean's shirt, rolling it up until he exposes the bandaged area where his right arm used to be.

"I'm so sorry, Jean..."

Jean doesn't know how to reply. He doesn't really want to. All he can think of right now, and all he's been able to think about for the last few days, is how he could have prevented this; how he could have been less of an idiot.

All he had wanted to do was be a hero... that was all he had ever wanted, ever since he was a child, when he and the other kids would run around with sticks and pretend they were soldiers. Naturally, as they grew older, most realized that being a soldier was nothing like being a hero. Jean realized that too, but he stuck with the plans, because he realized that even though there were no such things as heroes, that if he joined the Military Police he could still be treated like one.

It wasn't until he had joined the Survey Corps that he realized how wrong he was; heroes did exist. There were people in this world willing to risk their own lives to save others, even though they were treated like shit. Every single one of them cared more about humanity than themselves, and that was what made them heroes. And Armin, who had risked his own life three times to save him, was no exception.

So maybe that was why, in that moment when he had held Armin's injured body close to him, with only a single broken blade extended outwards to fend off a Military Police soldier, that he had thought maybe he could be a hero too.

Everything about it was exactly as he had heard and imagined it to be when Armin had saved his life for the second time, and perhaps that was why he had thought it would work.

But it wasn't the same. His opponent hadn't been a mindless titan looking to eat, and easily distracted. It was a human, a soldier, one who, unlike him, knew how to do her job. Just like the woman who had almost shot him, and Annie, who had almost crushed him. He should have learned, should have learned long before any of those events, back when he had found Marco's dead body, that this world was unforgiving. And he had to be unforgiving too.

But he still hadn't learned, and instead had just held a blade forward, naively, hoping that would stop her from coming closer. He had already destroyed her gear, and had believed that would be enough to stop her. But it wasn't, and he had broken his own blade in the process...

She was no longer weaponless.

He wasn't sure how much damage she had actually done to his arm, or where or how she had even hit it. All he remembered was the pain, and the shock, and the fear of what had happened to Armin, whom she had attacked first after getting the blade out of Jean's hand.

Hange had said that she was unable to save it. He didn't ask for the details.

"Damn it... I'm sorry," Jean apologizes. "I'm so fucking sorry."

"For what?" Armin asks, as if he's actually confused by the words.

"I wanted to protect you, but I failed!"

"Failed?" Armin still sounds confused. "Jean, you saved my life."

"No I didn't, Sasha did," Jean reasons, "If she hadn't fired that arrow then both of us would be dead."

Armin's survival had been pure fluke. She'd been in such a rush to get both of them out of the way that she hadn't cut deep enough to kill him. As for Jean... it hadn't been his arm that she'd been aiming for, Jean bet. He didn't know exactly how it happened, but he knew that if it wasn't for Sasha's arrow then that blade would have been embedded in his neck.

"I would have been dead before that if it wasn't for you." Armin's voice is strong, but Jean can hear how desperate it is. His hand is clenched around Jean's loose sleeve, squeezing tight, as if there's something worthwhile to hold onto.

Jean jerks it away.

"Don't you get it? I could have prevented all of it if I had just killed her in the first place! You wouldn't have been knocked out of the air, and I wouldn't have broken my blades if I'd just cut through her skin instead of going for her gear! If I'd done my job, neither of us would be like this! Now I have to go home, while everyone else stays out here risking their lives, and you think this is something worth commending?" He yells at him, even though it's not Armin he's angry with. But what does it matter anymore? It's not like he'll ever get to see him again.

Armin is silent for a moment. Jean stares at him, waiting for a response. Jean can tell from how the candlelight dances in Armin's eyes that they are wet.

But when he speaks, none of that sadness shows. "Have you ever thought that this was meant to be?"

What is that even supposed to mean?

Armin continues, his voice remaining firm. "I talked to Levi earlier - to try to get him to let you stay just a bit longer. He told me that I was being stupid, and selfish. And he was right. You're the only person here besides Sasha who has family who is still alive - family who will miss you if you die," Armin stares him directly in the eyes. "You're better off this way."

Better off? How the hell could this be considered better off? His injury meant that more people might die. Sure, he was able to barely protect Armin this time, but what about next time? Who was going to die then? Connie... Sasha... Armin? He'd finally learned what he needed to do, and now it was too late for him to even do it.

"You never wanted to kill humans, and now you don't have to. Now you get to go home."

Go home to what? A town full of grieving parents and children, ones whose kids hadn't even been part of the Survey Corps. Thanks to them, Garrison members, Military Police members, and innocents had all died. And they'd never understand why it was necessary. To them, he'd gotten what he deserved.

And what would he do from now on anyway? He couldn't be a soldier, nor a labourer. Not with this useless stub of an arm. The best he'd be able to do is be a merchant, but what could he even sell? His mom's baked goods? It was Trost. Nearly everyone had abandoned the town, and those who hadn't only remained because they were too poor to leave. They could barely afford the ingredients for their own meals, so selling food would be pointless.

"I was wrong. I thought that you just needed motivation. You're not a killer, Jean, I know that now. And it was wrong of me to try to force you to be one. Every time I told you that you needed to just be stronger... I was wrong. That's not you."

Armin finally stops talking, and Jean doesn't know where to begin. Everything that Armin said... he hates it. But he can't think of anything to say. He wishes he was as hot-headed as he was back in their trainee days, when arguments didn't require logic. He could just yell at someone and grab them by their collar until they gave up. But he can't do that now, and not just because he's missing an arm.

"So what? You're saying that because I have a family and care about human lives, I shouldn't be a soldier?" He knows that he sounds angry. But he isn't even sure if that's what he feels right now.

"Yes," Armin responds. The tears are now flowing freely from his eyes, but his voice hasn't wavered once. "That's exactly what I'm saying. You weren't meant to join the Survey Corps, Jean. You didn't even want to join to begin with."

"You're right, I didn't," He agrees, but the volume in his voice remains the same. "I wanted to join the Military Police. And it wasn't for any reason as noble as wanting to protect lives! I just wanted an easy life, and I thought that perhaps it wasn't as much of a shithole in the inner walls. I was wrong.

"But I learned, and instead I got to join the Corps. I got to do something that actually mattered. I got to save people's lives - or so I thought.

"I only joined this stupid Corps because I wanted to save people, and now because of that we're both like this!" Jean raises what he can of his right arm, not caring how his body objects. "I hurt both of us because I refused to hurt someone else, and I still don't know if that's right or wrong!"

Armin is quiet now, quieter than he's been this entire conversation, if that's even possible. Even his breathing is silent, though Jean can see from the way his scar raises with his chest that he's taking deep breaths.

When he finally speaks, he's down to a whisper. "And that's why you shouldn't be here. Because you care too much. It's a soldier's duty to kill, just as much as it's a soldier's duty to die. And you don't want either of those."

"Neither do you!"

"That's not true. If I die in the line of battle, I'm okay with that."

That can't be true. He knows Armin doesn't mean that. He doesn't want this life; he doesn't want to be a murderer. When he killed that woman to save him he had spent the entire night crying.

But when Jean speaks his voice doesn't carry any of the certainty of his thoughts. He's almost as quiet as Armin now. "You can't mean that."

"I do!" Armin responds. "I don't have anyone to return to. None of us do. Eren, Mikasa... we're all that each other has. And as long as I'm here, fighting by their side, I can't ask for anything else. If I had a home or someone to return to, then maybe it'd be different. But I don't."

Armin turns and heads for the door.

Jean doesn't bother stopping him.

He waits to hear the resolute thump of the door slamming shut, but Armin has one last thing to say before he goes.

"Go home to your family, Jean. Enjoy your life. Don't let yourself get caught up in this."

Then he's gone.

And once again Jean is left alone in the room with only the sound of the wind outside to keep him company, and a half melted candle on the dresser.

Jean walks over to it with no hesitation now, no longer scared of seeing the reflection in the mirror. He looks into it directly, and doesn't try to turn his body to hide his right side.

Maybe Armin was right. Maybe he shouldn't have joined the Survey Corps, and should have stuck with the Military Police.

Then... he might be one of the ones attacking them. And it would be one of his friends in this position, or worse.

He erases the thought from his mind.

He doesn't want to leave; he doesn't want to  _give up_. He's finally found something  _worth_  living for in this horrible world. He wants to keep going, even with his missing limb, and give it everything that he's got. Erwin is still fighting, and he's also missing a limb like him.

But he isn't Commander Erwin. He doesn't get paid for leading, or for talking negotiations, or for creating strategies - nor does he have the proper experience to be trusted to do any of those. His only job was to follow orders, use his gear, and kill some titans (and humans). But he can't do any of those things now, not with one arm.

The person who had told him he'd make a great commander was wrong. He hadn't even made a good soldier.

_There's no way that he's made him proud._

He stares into the mirror, and raises his left hand up to cover the right side of his face, so he can see what it would look like if he had  _also_  lost almost the entire right side of his body.

Jean sees the first tear before he feels it, and another quickly follows. It's not the first time his body has tried to cry since he's become like this, but it's the first time that he hasn't been able to stop it with pure will.

He raises his hands up to his eyes to stop them, but only manages to clean one eye before he remembers.

He gives up trying to wipe them away.

\--

It's been almost a month since Jean has been home, and life has become rather normal. Things are about as shitty in the city as he'd imagined it; the dissenters to the Corps and new government are abundant here, and the streets are filled with people who are too poor to leave, and too poor to afford the rising food prices.

The market stalls are scarce, and the food that you can buy is often not of good quality, but that doesn't stop the vendors from looking at him like he's going to run off with their goods, as if his missing arm is an indicator of missing morality. But Jean is also one of the people too poor to leave the town, even if he thankfully has enough money for food.

Jean opens his house door, careful to balance the loaf of bread that he's bought between his arm and side, to prevent it from falling when he pushes the door forward.

The view of the small kitchen greets him; a table with only two chairs, a wooden stove rarely used due to dwindling availability of affordable kindling, and a basin used to hold drinking water fetched from the well. It's small, and not anything he can brag about... but it's home.

He steps forward and places the wrapped loaf on the counter, pausing when he notices something off about the scene.

On the kitchen table lies a white envelope.

He's surprised his mom hasn't tampered with it in anyway. She's always been one to go through his personal stuff - love letters, drawings, more love letters... Then again, he can't think of any cases where she's opened any of his mail, but he also can't think of any time when he's actually  _received_  mail.

"Mom?" he calls out, but she doesn't answer. She's probably gone out to buy more thread, like she'd been talking about doing before he left.

He sets his bag down on the table so that he can pick the letter up, and flips it over. On the back is the wax seal of the Garrison, but upon opening it, he knows it came from a Survey Corps solder. 

> _Hey, Jean. I know we never got along as well as we should have, and I regret that (a bit), but I wanted to write to you. I never got to talk to you after I got back, because of your injury and all. I'm not going to say sorry for what happened to you, because I don't think you'd want that. But the real reason why I'm writing to you is because Armin won't._
> 
> _Mikasa says when I was gone you were there for him, and even though I really can't see how you two could possibly get along, I can tell something is off with him. But he refuses to write you, even though Mikasa and I have tried to convince him to (and trust me, if I'm trying to get him to write to you of all people, then you know how important this is)._
> 
> _He says that there's no point. He spouts nonsense like that he's a soldier of the Survey Corps so there's no point in writing letters to people. He's always been a bit pessimistic, but this is different._
> 
> _I know that on the night you left you two fought. Everyone heard it. But he hasn't talked to me about it since. I don't know what happened between you two, but I don't think it really matters._
> 
> _Our team isn't the same without you, and neither is Armin._
> 
> _I know you're not really an asshole, so please write back. We all miss you._
> 
> -Suicidal Bastard

Jean stares at the letter for another moment, assuring himself of its authenticity. Then he's at the cabinets and pulling out the stationary that he knows his mother keeps.

On more than one occasion he's picked up a pencil with his left hand and attempted to write something down. He used to draw all the time before he left, but now he finds both tasks unbearable. All he ends up with is crumpled paper.

But this time he tells himself that it's different, and he lets his writing scrawl out.

He doesn't know who to address it to, but finally decides to make it out to all of them. It's just as much for Mikasa and Eren, as it is for Armin.

He debates over what to write; if he should tell them what his life has been like up until now, if he should ask what they are doing (even though he knows they can't say), or if he should just be honest, and tell them how much he's hated it since he got back. In the end, he settles on something short and simple.

> _I'm glad I'm home now. Now you all have somewhere to return to._

**Author's Note:**

> When I started this I was a bit lost on what I was doing. The only thing I had to start with was the genre; angst. From there I thought up of many possibilities, but wanted to avoid doing character death as I felt, in a one-shot, that I could be much angstier through character interactions. In the end I settled on a scenario; Jean finally gets the chance to save Armin, but it doesn't go as planned. It allowed for a lot of potential, especially in their emotions.
> 
> So while I initially was nervous and confused about what I was doing, I like the end result. Did I get cheesy at the end? Yes, yes I did.
> 
> Thanks for reading, any comments are appreciated!


End file.
